


Riding Out the Storm

by Swordy



Series: Riding Out the Storm [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Horseback Riding, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-19 01:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4727597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swordy/pseuds/Swordy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I still think Dad would be proud of us for everything we've done, even though we’re not hunting anymore. I sure think it's cost us enough." Sam’s stunned. All he’s ever wanted is for his brother to recognise that he’s entitled to a life beyond the one their dad mapped out for them, and here he is, talking like he might actually believe it's true.</i>
</p><p>Retired from hunting, following a nervous breakdown after his return from Purgatory, Dean is persuaded to take up horse riding by his therapist. When Sam agrees to come with him, he’s not expecting to enjoy it and he’s certainly not expecting the heart to heart that goes with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Riding Out the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the fabulous reapertownusa for the beta. Any remaining errors are mine. Written as a sequel to 'Nothing Else Like It'. It would probably help to read that story first. Now with art by the fabulous thruterryseyes!

_'Being a survivor doesn't mean being strong - it's telling people when you need a meal or a ride, company, whatever. It's paying attention to heart wisdom, feelings, not living a role, but having a unique, authentic life, having something to contribute, finding time to love and laugh. All these things are qualities of survivors.' - Bernie Siegel_

Dean’s back. He'd know that without the rumble of the Impala pulling into the driveway or the sound of the door opening and then clicking shut because of the smell that floats through from the entrance hall. It’s a jumble of odours that all fit under the neat heading of ‘horse’ and it hits him again how familiar the scents have become. 

He hears the relaxed sigh that follows the _thunk_ of Dean pulling off his boots and knows that his brother will be massaging his aching feet for a moment before he pads through into the kitchen.

“Still at it, Poindexter?” Dean asks, surveying the textbooks covering the kitchen table as he comes into view. He heads straight for the refrigerator, an action as predictable as his opening insult.

"Apparently so."

With his reply Sam grimaces, then pushes back his chair and allows himself the luxury of a stretch. He glances at the clock – nine pm – and realises that he’s been at it for the best part of seven hours now. 

“Want one?” Dean asks, holding out a can of soda. 

“Thanks.”

Sam pops the can, takes a long drink and then studies his brother as he leans against the sink picking the dirt out from under his fingernails. Dean looks so much healthier than he had twelve months ago. It's more than just the reduced gauntness and the disappearance of the dark shadows that had claimed squatter’s rights under his eyes though - there's a _contentment_ that has settled on his brother. It’s a change Sam knows he’s never going to get tired of looking at.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

Dean nods then grins, suddenly animated. “Yeah. I had a fucking awesome ride. We found some logs so we did some jumping. I swear, Sammy, they were _this_ high.”

Sam smiles. “Is that like the horseback riding equivalent of ‘the fish was _this_ big?’”

“Screw you, you miserable pen-pushing bitch,” Dean replies, but he’s grinning too. 

“Jerk.”

There’s a moment’s silence while they both drink. It’s still strange seeing his brother drinking something that he’s not decanted into a flask or that doesn’t have a percentage printed on the label. There are times when he’d love to kick back with a beer but part of keeping Dean dry is maintaining his own sobriety and it’s another change that he’s more than happy to live with.

“So how’s the studying going?” Dean asks, breaking into his thoughts.

Sam casts a hateful glance at the reams of paperwork in front of him and sighs. “Honestly? I’ll be _so_ freakin’ happy when midterms are over.”

“Me too. You’re a miserable son of a bitch to live with when you’ve got exams.”

Sam makes a face, knows it’s probably true even though Dean is teasing. 

“Yeah... I could probably do with a break. I’ll go for a walk or something tomorrow.”

He watches as Dean’s expression indicates that he’s thought of something. 

“I’ve got a better idea. You can come out for a ride with me. Don’t worry; I’ll put you on something safe because I know you can’t ride...”

“I can ride!” he replies hotly. “Uh, Sunrise, Wyoming anyone?”

Dean snorts in derision. “Bumping up and down on a horse in an emergency is _not_ riding, Sammy.”

“Okay then, _fine_. You’re on. After all, how hard can it be?”

“Awesome,” Dean says, evidently choosing to ignore Sam’s last comment as it’s clearly _fighting talk._ He drinks the last of his soda and crushes the can. “We need to be there at six.”

“ _Six?_ As in six am?”

“Aw, that too early for you, princess?”

“No, no,” Sam replies, aiming for a look of casual indifference. “Six is fine.”

OoOoO

Six is _not_ fine.

Under his father’s regime six am was a _lie-in_ if they were between hunts. Since retiring he’s always tried to stay asleep until at least seven or eight o’clock, as if it’s some kind of personal victory - an indicator that they’ve finally gotten control of their own lives.

During Dean’s worst days after they’d settled down, when his brother had staggered first through alcohol detox and then his subsequent breakdown, Sam had had to snatch sleep where he could because six am could see him doing any number of things, from traipsing the streets looking for Dean and praying he hadn’t done something stupid, to sitting on the bathroom floor rubbing his brother’s back while Dean vomited into the porcelain, crying and repeating, _‘I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry, Sammy’_ between painful heaves.

Now their lives has a certain regularity to it, and Dean will often be up and out at six am, if it’s his turn to feed the horses on the farm that has unofficially become his place of employment. Sam however _likes_ the idea that six am can pass without his knowledge and it’ll be at least another hour until his alarm clock requests that he join the waking world.

Being up, dressed and standing in a musty stall while his brother saddles a horse isn’t any of the six am scenarios he would normally consider okay, but he _does_ need a break from his studies. He also can’t exactly deny the improvement horse riding has made to his brother’s psychological and emotional wellbeing, so he’s happy (or at least semi-happy) to give it a shot. 

As he watches his brother, Sam realises that Dean now moves around horses with the same confidence that he possesses with cars. Dean _understands_ them, knows what they need and how to bring out the best in them.

Dean’s currently saddling Saracen, a sturdy-looking thoroughbred cross Dutch warmblood (according to his brother) who is the only horse on the farm that won’t make Sam’s six feet five frame look ridiculous. He gets that the horse needs to be a certain size to carry him but he’s certain there must be a least _one_ other horse who isn’t quite so... well, so _big._ He can feel his brother’s amusement as he asks Dean this very question.

“Balthazar’s big enough,” he counters when Dean says that there isn’t.

Dean gives him a look. “News flash, Sam: Balthazar’s _my_ horse,” he says, as if he isn’t stating the obvious.

“You let me drive the Impala.”

Dean snorts. "I rest my case."

Sam does his bitchface to Dean’s back as his brother continues to prepare the horse for their ride. Once he’s done, he leads Saracen outside, beckoning for Sam to follow. Sam does as he’s instructed when Dean grabs a mounting block and puts it next to the horse.

“I can get on without that,” Sam says, gesturing to the block.

“Yeah, but it’s better for their backs if we use it,” Dean replies, reminding Sam that this place and these creatures have become an important part of his brother’s life. Once he’s onboard, Dean adjusts the stirrups and tightens the cinch before disappearing back into the barn to fetch Balthazar.

Balthazar has become an integral part of their lives in the eighteen months since Dean first decided to follow his therapist’s suggestion to try something new. By his own admission, Dean wasn’t exactly an ideal candidate for therapy, even though his manifold problems said otherwise. 

Even Sam, who’d desperately wanted his brother to get help, had been at a loss when Dean had asked him how exactly he could explain to his therapist that most of his issues had begun after he’d been sent to Hell for forty years followed, several years later, by an all-expenses paid mini-break to Purgatory, without subsequently being hauled off to the nuthouse.

The suggestion that Dean try something like horse riding had been a good one, even though it had initially been greeted with derision from the man himself. Sam had rejoiced at the changes it brought about in his brother, like it had rescued the spark that made Dean _Dean_ before it fizzled out for good. He’d gotten so used to seeing something more positive, he’d been unprepared for the day when it had all come crashing down.

Dean had been out, but unlike before he’d taken up riding, Sam wasn’t worried that he’d gone and done something stupid because he’d seemed well for so long now. Even so, he’d been a little concerned to hear the familiar growl of the Impala pulling into the driveway because he hadn't been expecting Dean back for another six or seven hours. 

When the front door had crashed open he’d gone into the hall to be met by the sight of his brother, desperate and broken in a way he hadn’t seen for several months.

He’d all but carried Dean into the kitchen and deposited him at the kitchen table, before listening as the whole sorry story came pouring out. He'd realised long ago that Dean had grown to love Balthazar and the thought of the horse being euthanised was now too much for his brother's fragile mental health to bear. 

Even now he can remember the horror that had gripped him as Dean had talked of unconsciously driving to a liquor store with the intention of buying alcohol and drinking himself into oblivion.

Despite this, his proffered solution had been made not as a knee-jerk reaction to Dean’s confession that he’d almost fallen off the wagon, but because it _made sense_. Dean loved the horse, had found a sense of purpose in caring for the animal and had discovered an interest that had the potential to become a regular job, which he’d never succeeded at holding down before.

Dean had just looked at him though and the emptiness behind his brother’s stare had frightened him. _Oh God, I’m losing him,_ he'd thought, and the panic that had taken flight had sent his mind down insane avenues: could he lock Dean in the house? Drug him? Anything to keep him safe from himself at that moment.

For what felt like an endless amount of time that day he’d watched Dean like a hawk, analysing every facial expression, every sigh until his brother had threatened to punch his lights out if he didn’t fuck off and leave him alone. He’d then panicked that he’d pushed Dean too far when, several hours later, Dean had re-entered the kitchen and announced he was going out. 

“Where are you going?” he’d blurted out.

“A bar,” was the answer, so bald in its honesty that he’d been momentarily too stunned to reply.

“To play poker,” Dean had clarified flatly. “If I'm going to run with your crazy-ass plan then I’ve gotta get some more money and fast.”

The hope that had blossomed in his chest at that moment had almost been palpable. If Dean wanted to buy the horse then it meant that his brother saw a future - one with himself in it. He’d smiled then and shook his head. “No poker. We’ll go to the bank.”

“Sam...”

“No, Dean. I suggested you buy Balthazar because we’ve got the money to do it.”

“Sam. Jody’s horse cost over _four thousand dollars_.”

"Doesn't matter. We're still gonna go to the bank." _The way regular people do_ , Sam had wanted to say.

Admittedly it hadn’t been ideal to be depleting their reserves in this way but Sam had stood firm and now, as he watches his brother swing into the saddle and affectionately pat Balthazar’s neck, a grin already spreading across Dean's features, he’s reminded of how they _finally_ got something right.

“You ready to go?” Dean asks, his eyes already on the rolling plains ahead of them as he settles himself in the saddle.

“You bet.”

He watches Dean squeeze with his legs to get Balthazar moving and copies the action. Beneath him, Saracen’s muscles ripple as they move forwards and he realises then, as he grips everything tightly, how little thought he actually gave to riding the horse back in Wyoming. Funny how you don’t worry about falling off and dying when you’re trying to avert the end of the world. 

Like a mirror that reflects an exact opposite, Dean’s posture speaks of the ease and contentment that eluded him his entire life until he discovered this new pastime. Sam experiences a crashing wave of giddy elation and pure emotion that his brother has finally found some peace. He’s glad that Dean’s attention is elsewhere as he’s pretty sure that the lump in his throat is visible.

Dean rides with one hand dangling at his side, the reins loose as he lets Balthazar pick his way along the track that will take them away from civilization. Sam’s envious of his brother’s confidence in the saddle and makes a conscious effort to relax his iron grip on his own reins. Saracen kindly does not take advantage of this minute loosening up and Sam finds himself starting to relax enough to take in his surroundings.

They stay that way, just riding and studying the scenery for what feels like forever. It’s a contented, companionable silence that’s as refreshing as the country air because this is not like silences of old that reeked of hurt and hidden agendas. There are no jagged edges to it, no splinters of furious mistrust, no concealed truths that inevitably end in _heartbreak_ because nothing in their miserable lives ever seems to go right. 

This is just silence, plain and simple; just two brothers content and secure in each other’s company with nothing particular to say. It feels _good_ and Sam embraces the feeling, hoping that Dean is doing the same.

“You okay up there?” Dean asks him after a couple more minutes have passed. There’s a hint of humour in his brother’s voice, confirmed by the smile that twitches at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Sam schools his expression into something he hopes resembles nonchalance. 

“Like I said, how hard can it be?” And oh fuck, he wishes he hadn’t said that because now Dean has that _look_ in his eye that only ever lands them in trouble. Dean, however, has always been of the persuasion that revenge is a dish best served cold, and so the grin quickly becomes more innocent.

“Beats studying, huh?”

He knows Dean is teasing because as arduous as it can be at times, he _likes_ studying and Dean knows that. Still, it _is_ good to get out like this and he nods and grins to assure Dean that his suggestion was a good one.

“Well, it definitely beats the last time I was on a horse.” He regrets the words as soon as they’ve left his mouth because he’s never sure how Dean will take any reference to their past. He’s relieved when Dean smiles and shakes his head.

“You know I laughed my ass off that you had to ride that horse back then, Sammy. Who’d have thought I’d end up doing this.”

Sam nods in agreement, glad that his comment hasn’t dropped them down the mineshaft that’s filled with the shadows of everything that’s scarred them over the years. If he’s surprised that that didn’t bother Dean, he’s blown away by his brother’s next comment because without any cajoling, threatening, sulking, _pleading_ , Dean is finally _talking_.

“I think about Dad, you know? I often find myself wondering what he’d make of all this.” Dean pauses and for a moment Sam thinks how he can respond that will not endanger his brother’s fragile self esteem, but Dean continues before he can offer a reply.

“And part of me thinks he’d be okay with it, you know? He told me once that he left the marines because he'd known it was time to move onto something else, so why shouldn't it be the same for us?

"And then there’s the part of me that thinks he'd be yelling at us, telling us to stop being selfish and get back out there... well, that’s when I remind myself that we deserve to live our own lives now. I sure as hell think we’ve done enough to deserve it anyway. I still think he’d be proud of us for everything we've done, even though we’re not hunting anymore. _Shit_ , I sure think it's cost us enough."

Dean stops speaking and glances over at him - for reaction or opinion he isn’t sure - but for a moment Sam is too stunned to reply. All he’s ever wanted is for his brother to recognise that he’s entitled to a life beyond the one their dad mapped out for them and here he is, talking like he might actually believe it's true.

"Dean..." He starts to say.

"I'm damaged, Sammy," Dean says suddenly, his eyes returning to watching the track ahead as the horses stroll along. "I know that. I'm damaged and I'm an alcoholic - sorry, a _recovering_ alcoholic - and all the therapy in the world ain't gonna change that. 

"And I'm not saying that's all I'll ever be, but I know my limitations, and I know that whatever I am in the end, it'll be the sum of those parts too."

Dean looks at him again, more searchingly this time. It's as if he's checking that Sam understands that there'll be no miracle recovery this time and that he's not looking for reassurance or denial that that's how this is. Sam nods, knows better than to argue even though it pains him to hear Dean talk about himself this way.

"But as much as I hate to admit it, the therapy _is_ helping. I don't think I'll ever have the whole white picket fence scenario - hell, what I've got right now might be me for the rest of my days, but I _can_ see a future for me now, Sammy, and it's a good feeling.

"And I'm levelling with you here because, tomorrow? Tomorrow, all bets could be off. There's no such thing as a dead cert and I'm a realist. I _want_ to stay sober and I _want_ to have a future where, I dunno, I can be content, maybe even _happy_.

"And I don't _know_ if I'll make it, Sam. But now... well, now I don't know that I _won't_ either."

Sam finds himself smiling because this is Dean, revealing that even he can see a glimmer of hope in the endless darkness that's been his life for too long. And Dean's got a point - they're _both_ damaged by everything they've lived through and it would be foolish to think they could just close the door on that part of their lives and not still be able to hear _some_ noises from the other room from time to time.

"You know, Dean," he says, "I think Dad _would_ be proud of us. And I don't know if the white picket fence is in my future either, but I'm okay with that too, because a good future for me is you and me doing okay, and what we've got right now isn't too far off that."

Dean smiles. "You kidding me? You'll find yourself a hot-assed lawyer lady someday, Sammy."

"Maybe, maybe not," he replies, not prepared to let Dean joke his way out of their heart-to-heart so easily. "Like you said, nothing's a dead cert. Maybe _you'll_ be the one with the hot-assed lawyer lady."

It's greeted with a soft huff of laughter rather than outright denial - another sign that Dean is not closed to the possibilities their lives might hold for them.

"You know what _is_ a dead cert though?" Dean says, pulling Sam from his thoughts. And that _look_ is back in his brother's eyes as Dean gathers up his reins and Balthazar starts to dance beneath him, the horse collecting himself, ready for action.

"What?"

"That your ass is gonna be last to that tree!" Dean yells as Balthazar springs forward into a flat-out gallop. 

Sam has a split second to shorten his reins before Saracen gives chase, and before he can give it another thought they're _flying_ and it's madness and it's reckless, but Dean was right - it's _exactly_ what he needs right now.

It might not be the safest thing to be doing when he's a novice rider at best, but he's laughing hard and from several paces ahead of him, he can hear Dean doing the same. 

"You're an asshole, Dean!" he yells over the thundering hooves. "I’m gonna kick your ass when I catch up with you!" 

But it's an empty threat, because travelling at speed with his brother when they're not racing towards a hunt or fleeing from a monster is almost more than he ever dreamed possible.

And yeah, Sam knows the road is never straightforward, but it's clear as far as the eye can see and that's good enough for him - for _both_ of them - right now.

**End**


End file.
